What We Must
by CCroquette
Summary: When Ivan finds a severely injured Matthew on his doorstep, he has no idea how complicated life is about to become. Can two broken people become whole?
1. Chapter 1

Warnings and notes: This fic contains violence, non-graphic references to previous nonconsensual situations, and large amounts of profanity. It was originally published on the kink meme under the title 'Red.' It is undergoing editing and reformatting.

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><p>Ivan had only just finally begun to relax - a warm fire, an icy bottle of vodka, and no one around for miles to bother him, no Party members or politik or <em>Belarus<em> - when a loud _thump_ against the door interrupted his evening.

He rose to his feet, confused. There should be no one coming to his door, no one should even know he was here. That was the whole point of this; he wanted to be alone for a while. He had been so _careful_ about it, too. He scowled.

He grabbed his pipe from where it rested against the doorframe, and yanked open the door, fully prepared to give the offending visitor a knock to the head and a speech on becoming one with Russia if he wanted to see Ivan so badly. If it were one of his boss's lackeys, come to fetch him back, so much the better, because damn it, he had been careful that no one would know he was here -

He stopped mid-swing when he realized there was no one standing there for him to bludgeon. That wasn't right. He frowned. There were tracks in the snow leading up to his door - _red_ tracks and - Oh. There. On the doormat.

A person. After some close staring - there was a lot of blood to look past - he saw blond hair, a brown coat, and under it the remains of familiar red shirt.

Canada.

Bleeding.

He crouched to get a closer look at the injuries. Lots of dried blood on his face, but it was probably from a head wound, and those always bled badly, bruises, a nasty swelling on the side of his jaw. His eyes were closed. Ivan poked him, once, experimentally. No response.

"Canada?" he called softly. Nothing. What was his name again? He hadn't spoken to him in so long… M-something. Michael? Matvei? No. Matthew, that was it. "Matthew?"

Silence.

Well.

He was still breathing. Nations were hard to kill. If he was still breathing, he'd probably live. Ivan stared at him a moment more, his eyes caught up in following the designs of blood smeared on skin, streaked through pale hair, like some kind of twisted modern art. His fingers followed, entranced, tracing them up and around and back. Matthew's skin was icy cold, pale, the bloody tracks standing out as vividly as if they'd been painted.

The wind whipped at Ivan, driving snow into his face and hair and down his shirt, unprotected by his coat. Right. The door.

Ivan dragged him over the threshold and into the house and shut the door soundly behind him. In the light the red stood out even more, and he looked at it closely, taking it all in. Who had done this? And why?

There was no obvious evidence here in front of him.

"_Shto dyelat'?_" he murmured to himself. ..._i kto vinovat?_ He frowned at the body in front of him, puzzling over that, and his fingers were about to start tracing the bloodstains again, but the iciness of Matthew's skin shocked him awake. So cold. He wasn't even shaking.

He needed to warm up.

Ivan carefully picked him up and carried him to the bathroom in the back of the house. He turned on the tap in the tub and watched as the water sputtered, and sputtered, and finally decided to come out and warm up. He had a brief moment of thankfulness that he'd decided to modernize this place, at least a little.

While the tub filled, he rolled up his sleeves and set to removing Matthew's ice-crusted clothing. Carefully he got the heavy coat - made heavier by the weight of the snow - off him, and set it aside, and saw - oh. That shoulder didn't look right. He'd have to fix it.

The red shirt under Matthew's coat was ripped all over and more or less destroyed. It was simple to enlarge a few of the rips and get it off of him without further jostling the dislocated shoulder. Once the shirt was off, Ivan braced him and popped the joint back into place. It made an horrible familiar sound and would hurt when he woke up, but for the moment there were more important things to see to.

His trousers were also damaged, like the shirt had been, but they weren't quite so bad. Maybe he could mend them later. He didn't rip them like he had the shirt, instead taking the time to undo them and slide them off over Matthew's hips. And -

Ivan hissed.

Bruises covered his hipbones, awful black-and-blue marks extending below the waistband of his shorts. The blood he found when he removed those wasn't a surprise. He took a moment to survey the injuries - lots of bruises, cuts, so much blood, he couldn't see it all clearly, but at least nothing else was popped out, no bones looked to be broken, no frostbite, by some unbelievable miracle of chance. All fixable, and fixable here, because Ivan wasn't leaving the house and giving _them_ a chance to find him.

He picked Matthew up again and set him in the tub. The water almost instantly turned pink, but at least it would warm him, and warm him now while getting some of the blood off him in the process, so that Ivan could actually see what the hell he was fixing.

He sat back, chewing a thumbnail, and tasted the coppery tang of blood. Not his. He stared as the tub filled, sputteringly, and tendrils of red swirled through the steaming water, but the tub was taking a long time to fill and he didn't like sitting and staring at that much blood.

He got slowly to his feet and stared down for a moment. He felt like a looming giant, and Matthew was so small below him. Small and red and cold. He needed to do something.

He headed to the kitchen and grabbed a mug from the kitchen counter. The samovar had hot water in it already, good... and he couldn't find the tea. Was he out of tea? The teapot was empty. Not good.

He made a perfunctory check of the cabinets and decided tea could wait. Heat was more important than flavor, and the water was hot. Ivan filled the mug with that and headed back toward the bathroom, pausing on the way to grab his bottle of vodka, which he drank from as he walked.

Upon returning to the bathroom he saw that Matthew had slipped downward in the tub; his nose and mouth were centimeters away from the water - too close. With a curse, Ivan set down the vodka, and the water, and rushed forward to grab Matthew under the arms and haul him up.

Matthew's eyes opened, just a bit.

Ivan forced his face into a smile.

Matthew screamed.

He not only screamed, he thrashed, sending a torrent of bloody water over Ivan and catching him in the head with a poorly-coordinated punch. He kept on screaming, and Ivan, stunned, let go of him, and backed away from the tub.

Matthew continued thrashing for a couple moments, stopping finally when his next punch met nothing but air. He curled into a ball, bringing his knees up to his chest. His breath came in short, stuttering gasps, and he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to keep screaming, though he tried, eventually making a keening sort of moan and going quiet.

Ivan watched him all the while, trying to collect his thoughts. "Matthew," he began slowly, "Do you know where you are?"

His eyes flicked towards Ivan, but he tensed, curling up tighter, and didn't make a sound. Ivan supposed that meant 'no.' "You are in Alaska. I have a house here. I found you at the door. You are injured." As he spoke, he moved closer to the tub. Matthew's eyes followed him, warily. "And you are very cold. I can help you, da?"

He made no sign that he understood. Ivan wondered if he should try speaking French. He hadn't actually spoken the language in a hundred years, but he remembered enough. "_Vous êtes en Alaska. J'ai une maison ici._"

Another not-quite-scream, and then Matthew hid his face against his knees and tried to bring up his arms to cover his head. The right one wasn't working properly. This was not the reaction Ivan had hoped for. He stared.

He went up to the edge of the tub again, slowly. "I will not hurt you." He wanted to know who had - oh, did he want to know - but that would have to wait. "Relax, yes? _Uspokoytes_'."

Even more slowly, he reached out and grabbed the mug of hot water he'd set down earlier. Still warm, at least. "You are cold," he repeated, and it out. "This will help to warm you up."

Matthew moved his hand away from one of his eyes, but didn't reach out. He eyed Ivan suspiciously.

"It is only water. I promise. You are too cold."

Finally, after several agonizing seconds, Matthew reached out one unsteady hand to take the mug.

Ivan smiled at him. "Good."

With that matter settled he turned away from Matthew, to rummage in the cabinets. They were well-stocked with supplies; he'd had need of them often enough, even here.

By the time he had that all arranged and turned back round, Matthew had drunk his water and set the mug down at the edge of the tub. He'd curled into a ball again, hiding his head. From that angle Ivan could see that his back was a mess, and wondered if he'd have to do any stitching. Before he could get to that though, the excess blood needed to come off, and give him a better view.

He approached the tub again, and had to reach over the edge to pull the stopper, and Matthew noticed this, and shrank away from him. He started to cry out but stopped when Ivan reached away to adjust the taps, and reached over again - a flinch from Matthew this time, but no noise - to grab the showerhead, and explained, "Your wounds need to be bandaged. I cannot do that until I can clearly see them, da? You have a lot of blood on you."

He watched Matthew intently. Finally, he nodded his head, a fraction of an inch. Ivan leaned over him - another flinch - set the showerhead to its lowest setting, and began to rinse off the blood. Matthew shook, whimpering.

"It is painful, I know," he murmured. "But it is necessary." Gently he used his free hand to take Matthew's arm and hold it away from his body, so he could get it clean. He followed suit with the other arm, and Matthew didn't protest, though he tensed up like mad and Ivan could see him biting his lower lip so hard he was sure it would break the skin, and then there would be more blood.

When Ivan asked him to unfold his legs, he refused.

"I have already seen those injuries, Matvei. I will not touch you there."

He didn't move. It took several minutes of cajoling him - and Ivan found himself speaking Russian at the end of it, because he was tired and he'd never been good at this sort of thing in English, anyways - but Matthew finally stretched out in the bathtub, so Ivan could get to work.

His legs weren't as bloody as the rest of him, but his hips and thighs were mottled black-and-blue. As Ivan rinsed them off he saw a red drop land on his arm and looked up to see Matthew crying. A thin trail of blood dripped down from his lip, where he'd finally broken the skin. Ivan stared at it a moment, before tearing his eyes away and resuming his work.

"_Vsyo budyet khorosho, Motka,_" he murmured, "_Vsyo budyet v poryadkye, da?_ Shh."

He finished up as quickly as he could, noting as he did that several of the wounds would probably need to be sewn shut. Whoever had done this hadn't done so systematically; there was no pattern to his injuries

Whoever had done this wasn't experienced with torture.

But who? That would have to wait. "Now we just need to bandage you," he said softly. Matthew didn't give any indication that he had heard.

Ivan got up and grabbed a stool from the corner of the bathroom along with several towels. Lucky they were dark-colored, he thought, blood always looked more shocking on white. He took Matthew's hand and after a minute or so managed to get him unsteadily to his feet.

He held out one of the towels and handed it to him straight away - "You can put this on," - and Matthew started trembling again and wouldn't look at him, but he wrapped the towel around his waist. He sat down when Ivan told him to - flinching, and Ivan didn't want to think about that - and Ivan sat on the edge of the tub, and patted off the excess water carefully with the other towels he had.

"It is almost over," he explained slowly, as he put his supplies in order, and uncapped the bottle of vodka. He could do with some, right now, he decided, and drank, before continuing. "What I am going to do next will hurt. Your injuries need to be disinfected and bandaged. Some of them must be stitched, da?"

Matthew blanched and Ivan wished fleetingly that he didn't have to do this. He drank, again, and a thought occurred to him.

He held the bottle up to Matthew's lips. "Drink," he said. "It will help you forget."

Matthew drank.

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><p>Translations:<p>

Shto dyelat' - What should I do? (lit. What is to be done?)  
>Kto vinovat - Who is to blame?<br>Uspokoytes' - Relax.  
>Vsyo budet khorosho - Everything will be fine<br>Vsyo budet v poryadkye - Everything will be okay


	2. Chapter 2

When all the bandaging was finally done, Ivan left Matthew sitting in the bathroom and went to find him some clothing. Everything he had was far too big, but at least it would be warm and at least it would be something. As he gathered up clothing from his chest of drawers, he realized he would need to find a place for Matthew to sleep. A bed, he needed a bed, but the bedroom was the coldest room in the house.

He returned to the bathroom, finding Matthew just as he had left him. The vodka had relaxed him a little; he was staring at the walls, looking shell-shocked. Ivan pressed the bundle of clothing into his newly-bandaged hands, and Matthew took it, stiffly. "Put this on, da? I return soon."

He didn't wait for a response. Instead he left, and went to the bedroom again, where he took the bedclothes off the bed and dragged the mattress out into the front room. It would be warmest there, in front of the fire, and Matthew needed a soft place to sleep.

Once he had the mattress moved, he grabbed the bedclothes, all the blankets he had, and the pillow, and made the makeshift bed. He wished now that he had more pillows, but it had been a long time since he'd lived with such extravagancy.

He headed back to the bathroom to retrieve Matthew, who had managed to dress himself in the oversized clothing and was now standing in the middle of the room, unsteadily, arms wrapped around himself. He was trembling.

Ivan walked up to him and carefully laid a hand on his arm, to lead him out. Inebriation delayed the inevitable flinch. "Come with me."

He didn't want to, at first, but Ivan kept tugging his arm - smiling all the while, because everyone trusted smiling people - and eventually Matthew followed him back into the front room, to the hearth.

"You need rest, now. The fire will keep you warm. Try to sleep, da?"

Matthew shook his head, in response to that, but he allowed Ivan to help him lie down on his side on the mattress, to cover him snugly with blankets. He didn't close his eyes, though, and lay staring up at Ivan, an unreadable expression on his face.

Ivan stroked his hair once, gently. There were still spots that were stained pink, and it took a lot more willpower than it should have to keep his fingers from running themselves over those. He drew his hand back. "Sleep," he murmured. "It is safe here."

Matthew stared a while longer, Ivan staying with him all the while, and finally his eyelids drifted closed, and his breathing evened out, and he fell asleep. Ivan kept watch over him for some minutes after that, his eyes still tracing the injuries. He was so pale, so vulnerable-looking in sleep. There was no more blood on his face; it had been replaced with bandages, but their white made the black-and-blue bruising stand out even more.

Who would do such a thing? Ivan wondered. Why _Canada?_ If anyone was going to go after a nation, why not his brother? Alfred had certainly antagonized far more people than Matthew ever had. Or, indeed, why not Ivan himself? He certainly deserved it, he thought, and was no stranger to such things. But Matthew?

Ivan sighed, and rose to his feet. There was still work to be done. He took hot water and a brush and set to scrubbing the blood from everything - the entryway, the hall, the bathroom. The bathroom was by far the worst, with streaks of red everywhere, and when he was done cleaning he had to scrub the blood out from under his fingernails.

When that was done, he gathered up the towels, and Matthew's clothing, and stuck them in the newly-clean bathtub which he filled with cold water. He stripped off his bloodied shirt and trousers, and put them in to soak as well, to keep the stains from setting, overnight. He would do the laundry later, after he'd gotten some rest.

He picked up his bottle of vodka, downing the remnants in one swallow, and headed into the bedroom, shivering. He dressed himself again- shirt, trousers, scarf - and grabbed his coat as he returned to the front room. Matthew hadn't moved.

Ivan laid down awkwardly on the sofa, knees hanging out over the side as he bent his legs to fit, pulled his coat over himself as a blanket, and went to sleep.

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><p>When he woke up the first thing he noticed was that the mattress was empty. He sat up, looking about the room, hoping to every deity he didn't believe in that Matthew was still here somewhere - and not with <em>them<em>. Where -?

Finally Ivan saw him, sitting curled up on the floor in the far corner of the room - blankets gone, some bandages showing pink. He was asleep, breathing slowly but steadily. Ivan debated moving him, or waking him up, but decided against it for fear of panicking him again. Instead he grabbed the blankets, and carefully draped them around him, noticing that Matthew was thankfully a good deal warmer than he had been last night. Pale, still, but warmer.

He'd need food when he woke up. That could be difficult.

Ivan went to the kitchen, and carefully examined the cabinets and the small refrigerator. Not much there, mostly because as long as he had vodka he didn't find it necessary to eat much, and he was running low on supplies anyway. After an extensive search he found a mostly-full tin of oatmeal, stashed in the back of a cupboard. Bland enough not to upset the stomach (he knew that lesson well…), easy to eat without chewing, and _warm._ Yes, that would work. He lit the stove and set about to boiling some up.

He managed to find the tea, too, and put that on to brew.

Matthew finally woke up that afternoon, though he didn't move from his corner. Ivan poured a mug of tea and ladled him out a bowl of oatmeal, stuck a spoon in it, and returned to the living room, holding out the bowl with a smile, feeling a little proud of himself. Now Matthew could eat. It was plain he hadn't been getting enough food in a while.

Matthew took the mug with a shaking hand, but instead of taking the bowl as he expected, Matthew only stared at him.

"Porridge, da?" Ivan explained, though Matthew ought to be familiar with the food. He didn't think there was anyone on Earth who wasn't. "Is good. Eat."

More staring. Ivan couldn't read the expression on his face - not pain, and not pure terror like it had been last night, but he couldn't tell just what it actually was. Finally he set the bowl down in front of him and backed away. Maybe he just needed to relax.

Ivan left the room, heading for the bathroom and the laundry he'd left there overnight. Most of the bloodstains hadn't set, but it took a lot of scrubbing to get everything clean. When he'd hung all that up to dry and returned to the front room, he expected to see an empty bowl in front of Matthew.

It was still full. He'd drunk the tea, at least, but hadn't eaten anything.

Ivan crouched in front of him again, though he took care to place himself more than an arm's length away. Again he was reminded of just how big he was in comparison, and he remembered what it was like being on the opposite side of the conversation, and smiled, and tried to be gentle. "Why don't you eat? Is it because it is cold now?"

Matthew shook his head, just barely.

"Is it because you don't like it?"

No.

"Are you angry with me?"

A more emphatic no.

"If you don't eat, then you'll die."

Matthew had no response for that.

Ivan sighed, and left it there. "You can move about the house, you know. You don't need to remain in the corner."

No answer.

He went to his bookshelf and pulled down a title - Erofeev, and that was another perk of being here and out from under his boss's watchful eyes. He sat down on the sofa with it, Matthew staring as he did, and began to read.

He would wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Much to his surprise Matthew didn't eat that day, or the following morning, though he always drank the tea Ivan made him, and finally did move from his corner to get up and use the lavatory. He walked very slowly, and Ivan knew that the injuries and the lack of food were weakening him. He wasn't going to let this go on.

He had to rebandage Matthew's wounds; he'd pulled some of them open as he slept. Matthew let Ivan work without protest, though he remained silent as ever.

"How did this happen?" Ivan asked, bandaging his knuckles.

He felt Matthew tense, under his hands, but no answer was forthcoming.

Ivan tried to get him to eat again, with another bowl of oatmeal. He'd found the last vestiges of a sugar package hiding behind the vodka. Maybe Matthew preferred sweets.

Maybe not.

"You need to eat this. You will die if you do not eat." A thought occurred. "Is that what you are trying to do?"

Matthew said nothing, but turned his face away.

_Blyad'. _He'd never been good at talking people down. He tried anyway. "That is a bad idea, Matthew. If you die what will happen to your people, eh? Who will look after them? Your brother can't do it. My boss won't let him. Do you want them stuck in the middle of that?"

He let him think on that for several minutes, but there was no response.

Ivan smiled and tried to be pleasant, because it was always better to be pleasant. "Matvei, listen to me. You need to eat, da? If you do not do it of your own accord, I will have to make you."

Matthew didn't move, and Ivan leaned forward and grabbed his chin, ready to make his mouth open up - because it didn't matter how frightening this was, Ivan wouldn't let him starve himself to death - and stopped, because Matthew's lips were moving.

Ivan let go, to let him speak - the first words since he'd found him - but for a moment Matthew only stared, terrified.

Then a faint whisper, so soft Ivan barely heard it:

"No, please."

"What?"

Matthew brought his arms up now, shielding his face. "No, please - please, no, no…." He rocked back and forth a little, in place.

Ivan drew back, recoiled, feeling something he belatedly identified as guilt. He shouldn't have done that. That was not how things worked here. He sighed heavily. "That was not the correct thing to do. I am sorry."

No answer, but Matthew was looking at him.

"I will not do that again." He didn't like that Matthew still hadn't eaten, but he wasn't going to get anywhere by sitting there and looming over him, not after what he'd just done. He got up instead, and backed slowly away.

He took another book down from the shelf - Solzhenitsyn, today, because he already wasn't feeling cheerful and it wasn't like this could make it any worse - and headed to the bedroom. Maybe being alone would convince Matthew to eat.

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><p>When he returned that evening Matthew was toying with the spoon, though it looked like he hadn't yet eaten anything.<p>

Ivan sat down across from him, taking care to sit out of reach. He wasn't giving himself a chance to do that again.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, and when he finally spoke he wasn't looking at Matthew, but through him, caught in the past.

"I have been in a similar situation, Matvei." So many times. He remembered them, remembered invading nations and rebellions and his boss, and would have shuddered except for centuries of practice at making himself forget, making himself too strong to shudder. Was this what happened when a nation got old? They all had scars, all the old ones...

"And I know… I know it hurts, and I know that it is too much to bear, but it is who we are. We are _nations._ We live through it and we survive and we do what we must. We look after our people."

Matthew spoke in a faint, faltering whisper, looking down at his knees. "And if they don't want looking after?"

"We do it anyway." He smiled bitterly. "Someone has to save them from themselves." _Even when it does no good_... He wanted to press him, to seize on that answer and find out just _who_ had done this, but it was more important for him to eat. He held a hand out, forcing himself to appear relaxed. "That is cold now, da?"

Matthew leaned away, eyes on Ivan's hand, and the guilt stabbed him squarely in the stomach.

He pushed it away. "Come, I will make you something new."

Matthew slid the bowl forward, and Ivan took it into the kitchen. As a new batch of oatmeal cooked he went digging through the cabinets. Vodka, vodka, and nearly nothing else - he really needed supplies, soon. He finally dug out a small, dusty can of condensed milk, cleaned it off, popped it open, and when the oatmeal was done he poured the milk into the bowl as well.

He returned to Matthew. "Here."

Matthew stared at him, but it was an engaged stare, not like the dead-eyed one he had last night. He was thinking about it.

"I must say, I am offended. I have seen you eat _English_ cooking before…"

And here, a small, barely perceptible ghost of a smile flashed across his face.

He held out the bowl of oatmeal again. "This is better than that, I promise."

Slowly, hesitantly, Matthew took the bowl and began to eat.

* * *

><p>Translation: Blyad' - literally 'promiscuous woman', (historically, 'heresy' or 'mistake'); used as an exclamation similar to 'shit!' in English.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Matthew slept better that night. Ivan was able to convince him to move from the corner and actually go to sleep on the mattress. He even ate breakfast (although it was more like lunchtime by the time he woke up), though he remained mostly silent.

When that was done Ivan sat down across from him. Matthew still preferred sitting in the corner, and Ivan couldn't fault him for that. He understood wanting to watch his back. "Matvei," he said, "I must speak with you."

Matthew looked unsure. He bit his lower lip, and thought, as Ivan waited. Finally he nodded.

Ivan nodded in return. "Matvei, I want to help you, but there are things I must know. Do you want to remain here, or do you want to return to Canada?"

As he spoke the last sentence Matthew's eye grew wide with fear , and his hands gripped his blanket so tightly that the knuckles went white. Just as Ivan had been expecting.

"_Ponyatno."_ He kept his voice calm, hoping it would have an effect. "Matvei, am I correct to guess that it was your people that did this?"

Matthew had started to shake, and when he opened his mouth to speak his breath caught in his throat. He licked his lips and tried again. "I-It -"

A knock sounded at the door.

Ivan jumped to his feet, conversation forgotten. Not them - not _here_ - they couldn't have - No. There was no time to think about that. He had to keep Matthew safe. He advanced slowly, quietly, toward the doorway, reaching for his pipe. "Matvei," he said softly, eyes fixed on the doorknob. "Go into the bedroom. Block the door if you can. Make no noise."

He hefted the pipe, and waited until he heard Matthew leave the room, and then reached out and opened the door.

He had just enough time to see someone standing there before he swung with all his might, catching the stranger in the head. Instead of collapsing, as he'd hoped it would, the figure struck back and punched him in the jaw.

He took one lurching step backward, seeing stars, and heard the intruder say, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He recognized that accent. America.

As soon as he had his footing back, Ivan grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall, arm against his throat. He kicked the door closed, and the walls trembled from the impact.

Alfred squirmed, trying to escape. "What-"

Ivan leaned in, looming over him even as Alfred struggled to place his feet on the floor. "Is anyone with you? Did anyone follow you? Who knows you're here?"

"Ivan, what-" Alfred grabbed the arm pinning him, trying to pull it away. It didn't work. Sometimes it was good to be huge.

Ivan twisted his forearm, digging it further into Alfred's throat. "Answer!"

"I-" He coughed. "I - no. No one knows I'm here. I'm alone." His fingers scrabbled at Ivan's unmoving elbow. "What the _fuck_, Ivan?"

Alone. Alone was good. They might still be safe. Ivan relaxed, fractionally, and Alfred used the opportunity to get in a punch to the ribs and shove him away.

He left himself be pushed, as the pain lanced through his chest and Alfred stepped further into the house. As soon as he had some of his breath back he took care to walk over and block Alfred's access to the hallway, before he could step down it.

"What the fuck are you doing in my country?"

Ivan smiled, and tried to seem unobjectionable. "I have a house here. It is...old. It was not your country when I built this."

"What the fuck are you doing here now?"

"Vacationing."

"Yeah, right. What are you really doing? Is this some fucked-up Soviet spy thing? Are you sending messages to the KGB? Are - hey -" He stood on his toes, trying to see around Ivan.

Oh no.

"What's down that hallway?"

"The bathroom."

Alfred eyed the mattress near the fire. "You don't have a bedroom?"

"I prefer a simple life."

His eyes narrowed. "Can I use your bathroom, then?"

"No. Have you finished your interrogation?" Ivan's thoughts raced. He needed to get Alfred out of here, but he couldn't have him telling everyone about this - and Alfred _would_, he knew. He could threaten him, but threats only seemed to encourage him, the bastard….

"No." Alfred strode forward, and Ivan grabbed his coat and shoved him up against another wall before he could make it down the hallway.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?" Ivan felt more punches land against his ribs, but he was expecting it this time, and angry enough not to care.

He leaned in close, and let the anger he was feeling seep into his voice, and let himself speak in the cold whisper that made anyone who truly knew him turn and run because he only ever used it when he was about to hurt someone. When he wanted to hurt someone. "It is not your concern." His fists tightened around Alfred's collar, ready to take that fabric and _squeeze._ "Get out."

"No." Alfred snapped his head forward, quicker than Ivan could react, and Ivan felt the bones in his nose shattering and the hot red rush of blood down his face, as his vision clouded up and his grip loosened and Alfred went racing down the hallway -

- no -

- and yanked open the bedroom door -

- no! -

- and Ivan went staggering after him, but it was already too late. He'd seen. "Jesus, fuck! Matthew!"

_Blyad'._

* * *

><p>Translation: Ponyatno - 'Understood.'<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

He entered the room moments after Alfred stormed in, and through watering eyes saw him standing in the center of the room as Matthew sat curled up in the corner.

"Matt! What the hell happened? Everyone's looking for you!" Alfred rushed toward his brother, then stopped, staring. He'd noticed the injuries. "Holy _fuck._"

He turned and advanced on Ivan instead, fists already swinging. "What the fuck did you _do?_"

Ivan dodged, and caught one punch in a massive hand and _held_ it. Blood dripped from his chin and stained the floorboards red. He bared his teeth. "I did not do anything."

"Bullshit!"

He tightened his grip, noting with some satisfaction that Alfred grimaced when he did so. "_I did not do anything._"

Alfred looked back toward Matthew, who stared, wide-eyed and terrified. "What's he so fucking scared of, then?"

With his free hand Ivan brought the end of his scarf up to his nose, stanching the bleeding, and told himself that punching Alfred would only make Matthew more upset. "I would guess that he is frightened because you are yelling and I am covered in blood."

Matthew was already too upset. Ivan nearly cursed - he'd been almost _calm_ earlier, and then his brother had to rush in and destroy everything.

He avoided looking at the blood; now was not the time for distraction. Instead he looked back up at Alfred, released his hand. "You know how to set a broken nose, da?"

The question seemed to have caught him off-guard. Good. "Yeah."

Ivan raised his chin, just a fraction, and gritted his teeth. "Do it."

Alfred looked uneasy, but when Ivan didn't back down he reached forward. Ivan grunted once as the bones crunched back into place, and caught the new rush of blood with his scarf. The brothers both stared at him, until the bleeding finally stopped, and he wiped his face, and turned carefully to Matthew.

He smiled, because if he smiled they would be less likely to notice how dizzy the blood loss had made him, and said, "You see? Everything is fine."

Matthew nodded, slowly, and as he did Alfred stepped forward, crouched in front of him. "Hey Matt."

Matthew's voice was no more than a whisper. He wouldn't meet his brother's eyes. "Hey."

"You look like shit."

"Yeah."

Alfred looked up at Ivan. "Some privacy, please?"

He looked at the red drops splashed across the floor and wanted more than anything to say _no_, and to grab Alfred again and force him out the door, but that was not diplomatic, and it looked like he would need diplomacy. He left.

* * *

><p>After he'd washed the blood out of his coat and scarf, and hung them up to dry, and washed the rest of the blood from his face - which was starting to bruise, now, and it was a pity there were no meetings this week because he could have made use of the additional intimidation granted by two black eyes - he returned to the front room and pretended to be engrossed in Akhmatova.<p>

He stared at the pages for a while, paying idle half-attention while listening for conversation from the back of the house. He couldn't make out the words, though he heard mostly Alfred's voice.

At last the talking stopped, and a few minutes later Alfred entered. He stood for a minute at the edge of the room, with a hesitation Ivan pretended not to notice, and then he stepped forward, and gingerly sat on the opposite end of the sofa.

"He fell asleep."

Unsurprising. He continued to read.

"He says it wasn't you who did it. Can't get him to leave with me."

That was more surprising. Ivan said nothing, however, reading and re-reading the same line as Alfred began to fidget. After several moments of playing with his fingernails, he tilted his head, looking for the title of Ivan's book. Ivan could have moved his hands to make it easier to see. He didn't.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Your boss doesn't mind you reading this stuff?"

Deliberately, Ivan turned a page. "What he does not know does not hurt him."

Alfred didn't answer. Ivan kept his eyes on his book. Finally,

"Why's there a mattress out here?"

"This room is warmest. He was very cold." He turned another page. "Why are you here?"

More silence, and Ivan did nothing to abate it. He continued to read, and watched from the corner of his eye as Alfred grew tenser and tenser until -

"I was looking - he's been missing for at least the past three months. No one had any idea where the fuck he was. I don't even think they noticed right away when he disappeared. His boss has my boss and Arthur's boss going nuts trying to find him with very strict instructions not to let _your_ boss get word of it. And now that's all gone straight to hell, so you wanna tell me what the fuck I'm missing here?"

Two more pages, this time.

"He appeared on my doorstep four days ago, with severe injuries. I have done what I can for those. He has not yet told me who is responsible for his current state. He does not want to return to Canada." He looked at Alfred sidelong. "My boss does not know."

Alfred at least had the sense not to make an issue of that, though Ivan could feel his stare. "He's been here for four days already?"

"Da."

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you say something?"

"Because if I act, it is likely that my boss will take notice, and if he learns of this he will do something stupid. He will probably take Matthew, and use him as a tool to manipulate your boss, then I will not be able to protect him anymore."

Alfred frowned. "Look, I appreciate your help, and I'm glad you're not handing him over to your people, but he's gotta go back home. I'll just take him with me, okay? By the time he wakes up he'll be in Ottawa."

He raised his head from his book, and calmly looked Alfred in the eye, staring him down. "If you try to take him anywhere against his will I will hurt you. I will hurt you, and when I am through with you this face will look pretty in comparison to yours. And if, after that, you refuse to listen, I will call my boss and I will tell him to launch his missiles, and I will feel absolutely no regret."

He was bluffing - if his boss actually went nuclear on Ivan's word it would be the first suggestion of his that he'd ever listened to, and Ivan theorized that even if he wanted it he would refuse to out of spite - but Ivan kept staring and Alfred looked away first.

"Okay, okay. I won't take him, but look, you gotta at least tell his boss. My boss is already freaking out and if they don't find him soon the whole world's gonna freak out and it's gonna be a mess and I can't handle another war right now." He ran a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have just said that to you. Jesus, fuck."

Ivan returned to his reading. "You know how to contact him, da? You tell him."

"What? No! You seriously think he'd be cool if I just walked in there and said, 'Oh, Matt's fine, I left him with Ivan, but he promised me it's okay, don't worry'? I give it ten minutes before the Cold War turns hot. If you show up in person he might believe you. You gotta do it."

Ivan considered this. Moving anywhere opened up the risk of someone seeing him, and he didn't know where all his boss's spies were. He rose from the sofa, snapping the book shut. "I must prepare dinner."

Alfred followed him to the kitchen, much to his annoyance, and stood cross-armed in the doorway as Ivan began the now-familiar routine of cooking porridge. He wasn't hungry for food, just vodka, but the oatmeal he'd been relying on was running low, and now there were two people to feed. As it started cooking, he began searching through the cabinets for something to stretch it with.

He found an onion, and nothing else. At least Matthew would probably eat little, and if Alfred didn't like it he could always just _get out._ He began peeling.

Alfred was looking at him oddly. "Why don't you have groceries?"

Because he couldn't go out when he had no idea who was watching the area. Because he wouldn't put it past his boss to send the KGB and while he'd spent his share of time in secret prisons he'd be _damned_ if he was handing Matthew over to them. Because there were a thousand ways to make someone disappear and if he wasn't there he couldn't stop it.

He took a drink of vodka, and stirred the oatmeal. "Because I forgot to make a list."

Alfred sighed. "I'm not gonna let my brother starve. I'll get you some stuff."

Ivan scowled at that, because he didn't need American charity, and why was Alfred so determined to force his way where he wasn't wanted instead of just leaving them alone? But Matthew did need food, and Alfred wouldn't raise anyone's suspicions buying groceries in America.

Grudgingly, he said, "Thank you. Do not allow anyone to know." He put a pan on an open burner, and tossed in the onion, and hoped that that was the end of the conversation.

"Hey."

No such luck.

"Won't your boss come looking for you? I mean, if you're here?"

"My presence is not required." His boss could find another punching bag. He would simply wait, and take his retribution when Ivan returned.

Ivan always returned.

Alfred was giving him that odd look again, and Ivan couldn't tell if it was disparaging or concerned. "You know, if you want to defect, I can…"

Ivan glared.

Silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Dinner that night got off to a tense start. Alfred had gone to wake Matthew, and had startled him into a panic. It took them half an hour to calm him enough to convince him to leave the room, and even longer to convince him that he was hungry.

Finally they sat down to eat. Ivan had a small table in the kitchen, and had dragged appropriate seating in from other areas of the house. He had never entertained visitors here.

Alfred's brow furrowed. "There are two bowls."

"Da."

"There are three of us."

Ivan sat down at the place with no bowl in front of it.

"Why aren't you eating?"

He raised a bottle. "Vodka, da?"

They didn't speak much after that; Alfred wolfed down his food and then sat staring at him, fidgeting, one denim-clad leg bouncing anxiously up and down. Matthew ate much more slowly, but he did eat, and Ivan waited until he had finished completely before speaking.

"Matvei," he said, "Your boss must be informed of what has happened."

Matthew went white, and the hand that had still been gripping a spoon started to shake. "I - I can't. I can't go back there- "

Alfred interrupted. "You don't have to." He shot a glare at Ivan, who smiled in return, and drank one long swallow of vodka before speaking again.

"It is not necessary that you return to Canada. I will inform him." He pretended not to see the surprise on Alfred's face, and focused on wording his next sentence carefully so as not to upset Matthew any further. He was glad he had waited until Matthew had eaten; he probably wouldn't have had any appetite left now. "I will inform him, unless you think that I should not. Should this information be kept from him?"

Matthew shook his head.

* * *

><p>Alfred left them that night, disappearing to wherever his people's nearest outpost was and returned the next day, with directions to said outpost, provided only under the promise that they not be shared with <em>anyone,<em> which in Alfred's mind seemed to consist mostly of Soviet spies. Ivan didn't tell him that that was the last thing in the world that he wanted, and simply agreed to secrecy.

Alfred had 'made arrangements' with his people, and Ivan left him to care for Matthew as he went to meet them that evening, trying his best not to draw attention. Such arrangements included the use of a plane and a complement of bodyguards (though he supposed that they were there as much to keep him from doing anything questionable as they were to keep him safe) who knew nothing of his true identity and intimidated everyone around them into looking away.

Thus it was that the next morning he found himself stepping into the prime minister's office, and resisting the urge to just slam him against a wall and demand answers. He stood ramrod-straight, well away from the prime minister's desk so that he wouldn't be tempted. "Alfred Jones has already contacted you, yes? Before we begin, I will tell you that I am doing this outside of the interest of my boss."

His fingers itched for his pipe, to reinforce the implicit threat that _this must not be spoken of_, but he hadn't been able to bring it in with him. He settled for looming, instead.

Trudeau was not intimidated. "That much is clear."

An odd answer. Ivan got the feeling Trudeau had information that he didn't, and wished that he could bludgeon something to get rid of his discomfort. "I know where Matthew Williams is."

"Where?"

"He is under my protection. Under the circumstances I think it would be wise not to reveal his location, except to say that he is in U.S. Territory."

He surveyed Ivan calmly from behind the desk. "What circumstances would those be?"

"It is my understanding that he has been missing for some time, yes? I came across him six days ago. From his injuries it is evident that he has been held captive and tortured."

He expected to see surprise on the prime minister's face, and instead found only grim acceptance - and suspicion. "How do I know that you didn't do it?"

Ivan leaned casually over the desk and smiled, because it made the bruises on his face twist and stretch into an even more horrific pattern. Matthew's boss leaned ever-so-slightly away, and Ivan waited a moment before speaking, letting the impression sink in. "I would have sent you pictures."

He looked away briefly, changed the subject. "Who knows about this?"

"I know. Alfred Jones knows. You know. Those are the only people who know."

"Why don't you bring him back here?"

"He has said that he does not want to return at the moment." Ivan leaned further forward. "I find it best to abide by his wishes."

"If I were to contact Alfred Jones now, would he tell me the same thing?"

Ivan merely looked at him, smiling.

"Why are you doing this?"

The smile broadened. "We are nations."

* * *

><p>He returned, exhausted, to find the house full of cooking smell - greasy and cloying and burnt. He tried not to cough as Alfred accosted him in the doorway, holding something.<p>

"I made grilled cheese. You can't just drink vodka all the time."

Wordlessly, he accepted the plate. Two sandwiches, speckled black on the outside, plastic cheese oozing from the middle. Pickles next to them, at least, their juice slowly soaking toasted bread into an oily, soggy mess. Diplomacy, he told himself.

"You want ketchup?"

"No." _Diplomacy._ "Thank you."

"I got groceries while you were gone. And some clothes for him. Matt's sleeping. His boss wants me to keep an eye on you, so you don't try anything suspicious. He called me while you were away." He barked a laugh, then sobered. "I can't stay right now. My boss needs me. It's...urgent."

Ah yes, proxy wars.

Alfred zipped his coat. "I'll be back soon. Don't try anything." The admonition wasn't as harsh as it might have been. It seemed diplomacy was working.

He left, and Ivan grabbed a bottle of vodka from the kitchen - overtaken, now, by American groceries - and headed for the front room. He tried a bite of a sandwich, as he walked, and quickly gave up in favor of the pickles.

Matthew was sleeping in front of the fire, as he had done...no. Not quite. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was too shallow, his posture too tense, for sleep.

Ivan sat down on the sofa, eating the last pickle. "Would you prefer to sleep in the bedroom? You are not so cold now."

Matthew opened his eyes, considered Ivan for a moment, and slowly shook his head.

Ivan held out the plate. "Sandwich?"

Matthew sat up, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. One corner of his mouth might have quirked up, as he looked at the plate, or it might have just been a trick of the firelight. "No," he whispered. "Thanks."

Ivan set down the sandwiches. "Matvei, I have spoken to your boss."

"Alfred told me. I guess he was worried you were going to send me to a gulag." Matthew tried to laugh at his own joke, but it turned into a shudder, and he bit his lip, staring at the floor.

"I told him what had happened and what...a state... you were in, when you arrived here. He did not seem surprised." Mentally, Ivan cursed his boss's control and his own ignorance. "What is _happening_ in your country?"

Matthew was silent for long enough that Ivan wondered if he'd frightened him into not talking, again.

Then, "You said that we look after our people."

"Da."

"What do you do when...when they're not your people anymore?"

Ivan drank. "What do you mean?"

"There are people...of mine...who want to separate. Recently, some of them have - some of them have-" He shuddered again, and took a moment to collect himself. "Some of them have become violent."

Ah. That would be it. "They were the ones who did this to you."

"They…" he paused, took a deep breath, "They wanted to kill me because they thought if I died there would be a Quebec. In - in my place. They feel that they're not part of Canada anymore." His voice faltered and broke. "They don't want me."

Ivan recognized the look of betrayal in Matthew's eyes. His people had tried to set up a USSR, once, a pale imposter of a nation whom Ivan had swiftly beaten down into the snow.

Matthew was in no shape to beat anyone down.

Ivan slid from the sofa to sit on the floor, and looked him in the eye. His voice was low, gentle. "If enough of them felt that way, you would already be dead."

He wanted to touch him, to put a hand on his shoulder do _something,_ because he looked fragile and small and broken - and young, so young - but he knew it wouldn't reassure. "There are a few...misguided ones, but the rest are still your people. These things happen, da? You must be strong and endure them, because the others are depending on you to look after them. You must be strong and not let them beat you down. You must be strong. _Vsyo budet v poryadke._"

Matthew watched him, eyes glistening, and Ivan found himself aching to reach out and take his hand. He settled for drinking more vodka.

"Listen to me. I am experienced in such matters, da?" He laughed once, hollowly. "You are strong enough to endure or you would not still be alive. You must know this."

Matthew only stared, and Ivan sighed, and finally gave in to touching by reaching out and adjusting his blankets. "You will endure, Matvei. But for now, you must rest."


	7. Chapter 7

It was the sound of Matthew thrashing that dragged Ivan out of sleep. He looked over to see Matthew tossing and turning, the blankets thrown off and tangled around his feet. In spite of that his hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He made no noise, but it was clear from the expression on his face that he was caught in a nightmare.

Ivan had been expecting this to happen soon. Now that Matthew's injuries were healing, his body wasn't so desperate for rest. He was free to dream. Ivan left the sofa, and sat down next to him.

"Matvei," he called.

Matthew whimpered once and rolled away from him, flinging his arm over the edge of the mattress. Ivan winced as it hit the floor, and called his name again, to no avail.

He agonized for several moments over the decision of whether or not to touch him, as the whimper turned into an almost-scream. Finally, he reached out and lightly shook his shoulder. "Matvei."

Matthew came to with a gasp and seized Ivan's wrist, bandaged fingers clutching tightly, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

Ivan let go. "_Vsyo v poryadke._ You had a nightmare, da? "

Matthew watched him. His heart was pounding so frantically that Ivan could feel his pulse through his fingertips, beating against his skin. He tried to be soothing, and not think about rushing blood. "It is over now."

He pulled back, trying to extricate his arm, but Matthew's grip remained strong.

"You have lost your blankets. You will be cold."

He made an attempt at a sympathetic smile. It failed miserably, and Matthew only stared. Finally he let him go, and Ivan rose. "I will make tea."

He left for the kitchen, and when he returned bearing two cups of tea and a bottle of vodka, Matthew looked calmer. He'd straightened the tangled blankets, and draped one around his shoulders. Ivan handed him a mug. "Drink."

They drank the tea in silence. Matthew's hands shook at first, and gradually steadied, though he kept his gaze on the floor. After some time Ivan concluded that Matthew probably would not be falling asleep again, and decided a distraction was in order. He retrieved a chess set from the bookshelf. "Do you know how to play?"

"Yes."

A whisper, only, but it was more than Ivan had expected. He set the board down on the floor and began to arrange the pieces. Ivan was a skilled chess player, but after he'd had some time to warm up to the game Matthew proved unexpectedly adept.

Ivan took a drink of vodka as he considered a particularly tricky move, and when he set the bottle down, Matthew reached for it. He watched, surprised, as the other nation drank without so much as a grimace. "I did not know you also enjoyed vodka for breakfast, Matvei."

No answer. They played a few more moves, and Matthew reached for the vodka again.

"No." Ivan moved the bottle away. "Too much is not good for you."

Matthew's eyes remained focused on the board. "You drink all the time."

"That is because I need it. You are not yet so far gone."

An empty laugh. "I feel like I am." He raised his hands, still bandaged, still sore, and gestured to a bruised and ashen face. "Look at me. I might as well become an alcoholic."

Ivan regarded him, and with a sigh moved away the chessboard to sit closer. "Matvei, let me show you something."

He pushed away his scarf and undid the first few buttons of his shirt before sliding a hand inside, over his heart.

"This is Sankt-Peterburg." 'Leningrad' couldn't possibly encompass it, couldn't do justice to a legacy of blood and fire and beauty and death. His heart, ripped out and renamed and tortured and cruelly shoved back in. He moved his hand, revealing a mass of twisted scars. "You see?"

Matthew's eyes widened, and it took him several moments to find his voice. "W-What happened to it?"

"The revolutions began here." An entire cursed inheritance began there.

"I tell you this because I have seen more horrors than I can remember and even I was not an alcoholic until they cut out my heart."

Matthew fell silent.

Ivan let his hand drop, and the scars disappeared again under his shirt. His voice gentled. "You are young. You are young and you are strong. You must not lose hope."

They sat unspeaking for some time, chess game forgotten, until Matthew looked up at him and ventured, softly, "I always thought your heart would be Moscow."

Ivan laughed at that, genuinely laughed, loud and long and ringing. "No." He shook his head, and gestured to his temple, a grin spreading across his face. "Moskva, da? It is my head. It could never be my heart."

He was still smiling when the door burst open.

He had enough time to recognize a bomber jacket and realize _America_ as Alfred rushed him, before the other nation grabbed him by the throat and knocked him back into the floor.

"You fucking bastard!"

He saw stars as his skull bounced on the stonework, felt a knee dig roughly into his chest. Vaguely he was aware of Matthew, protesting.

He grabbed the arm choking him, and every instinct he had screamed for him to break it. To punch kidneys and shatter ribs and gouge eyes before the same could be done to him - _because it had happened too many times already and Alfred's knee was pressing the __scars_ - but Alfred's grip was not tight enough to crush his throat, to cut off the blood to his brain, and it could have been. Should have been, if he was serious. A feint?

No, a chance, he realized. Something had happened, and Alfred was giving him a chance.

He forced down instinct and kept his voice calm. "What is wrong?"

Alfred sputtered, and the grip tightened - though still not enough - and with the hand that wasn't choking him he waved something in Ivan's face. A stack of papers. "Those fucking monsters that did this to him - you – you-"

"I what?"

"Look! Look at the fucking papers!"

Alfred's knee moved, chafing the scars further, and Ivan gritted his teeth to keep from pummeling him. "Alfred, I cannot look while you are choking me."

With one last dig Alfred let him go, and as he sat up, resisting the urge to cough, Alfred shoved the documents into his arms. Matthew watched them both, horror-stricken.

Ivan took the papers and began to read them. He did not read quickly in English, especially not dense official language that had been censored five times over. Finally Alfred lost his patience, and leaned over him, stabbing one gloved finger at the report.

"Fucking look! Look who's fucking helping them!"

Ivan looked.

KGB.


	8. Chapter 8

KGB.

He should have been more surprised, but reading the evidence, he felt only dull acknowledgement. He almost laughed - he really had been expecting it, hadn't he? Why had it taken so long? - but he stopped himself. The others wouldn't understand.

Of course it was KGB, reaching his boss's influence all the way over here to try to control yet another sphere of influence, to spread his power where it didn't belong.

His hands tightened around the reports, adding new creases to already-wrinkled paper. Softly, he said, "I did not know about this."

Something on his face must have made Alfred believe him, or at least given him something to think about, because he didn't attack again.

Ivan looked up at Matthew. "I am sorry."

"But - you didn't -"

"They were my people. I am sorry."

An awkward silence reigned for some time, as Ivan stared at the reports and half-read them. He used to be able to control...everything, to know every last detail of everything that went on beneath him and to command it all at a word.

And now?

As he was staring at the papers, seeing-and-not-comprehending another halfway censored line, Alfred leaned towards him again, eyes narrowed.

"The fuck is that?"

He followed Alfred's gaze, and realized that his shirt was mussed, the edges of his scars now on very prominent display. Wordlessly, he set the papers down and did up the buttons.

Alfred chose not to comment further. He picked up the papers. "They're blaming me for it now, you know."

Of course. The mighty propaganda machine at work. "You have your own counter-intelligence forces, do you not? I am sure your CIA is more than capable of handling itself."

He barely even paid attention to his own reply, quarreling more out of habit than anything. He'd had no idea. How had this happened? What had he become?

He rose, suddenly, and reached for his pipe.

He knew what had to be done.

"Where are you going?" Matthew asked.

He didn't turn around. "I will not interfere with your citizens, but I can control my own."

He opened the door, and stepped into the snow.

* * *

><p>He had to do it.<p>

It was not only a matter of security. It was a message. _You are not Russia. You are not in control. You do not act for this nation and do not think that I have given up and acquiesced to you. Do what you will with your prisons and your politics and your private little armies. __Your time will come__._

It still hurt him, still ripped through his heart when he wrenched open their doors and saw on their faces that they _knew._ They knew who he was and they knew why he had come for them, and they realized, fully, just what it was that they had done.

When he was through with them, they knew nothing.

* * *

><p>When he returned he was glad that it was the middle of the night. There would be no one awake to see him, no one awake to ask questions. No one awake to accuse.<p>

Involuntarily he felt a corner of his mouth quirk up in half a twisted smile, because if he didn't do that then the tears would fall and he would go down with them. He opened the door, and dropped his pipe in the entryway with a clatter.

He'd just undone everything. He felt...cold.

He headed further into the house and saw Matthew sitting up awake in the front room, his brother asleep on the couch.

"Ivan? What happened?"

He couldn't look him in the eye. He kept walking, instead, until he was in the bathroom and had the door closed and locked behind him.

He needed to get the blood off.

He turned the taps on and stripped off his clothing, letting it pool in a heap around his feet. When the water was finally hot enough - near to scalding - he got in, and dropped the stopper in the drain, and began to scrub.

His clothing had kept the worst of it from his skin, but he could feel it on his face, in his hair, cloying and sticking and _red_ -

He ducked under the water, fingers scrubbing furiously, and considered just staying there until there was no more cold, no more blood. No more USSR.

A knock sounded at the door.

He jerked his head from under the surface, blinking as the soapy water stung his eyes.

"Ivan?"

Matthew. He took a deep breath. "Da."

"Are - are you all right?"

He had to think about it, to decide which answer would be best. He settled on evasion. "… I will be out momentarily."

He stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist - _because he had forgotten to bring a change of clothes in with him and the ones around his feet were covered in blood, so much blood, bright red stains and the Motherland dead and dying on the ground _-

When he opened the bathroom door he saw Matthew sitting against the opposite wall, looking concerned. "Ivan?"

He didn't bother thinking of a reply. By the time he'd emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed, Matthew was on his feet, face taut with worry.

To Ivan's surprise he reached out and placed a hand on his arm, the barest ghost of a touch. "Ivan, what happened?"

His hand was warm.

Ivan's arm, still freezing despite the scalding bath, trembled under it. "I...have taken care of things."

Matthew thought on that a moment, and Ivan braced himself for the disgust, the hatred. The rejection. In the end, Matthew only said, "You look tired."

"Da."

They said nothing else until they were in the front room. "My brother took over the couch," Matthew apologized as he pulled back the blankets.

"_Mne vsyo ravno." _He would sleep on the floor. He'd had worse. He knelt, preparing to stretch out, when Matthew took his arm again.

"You're shivering." Matthew gestured to the empty space on the mattress. "There's room here. Not fair of me to take all your blankets, anyway."

He didn't trust himself to speak. Instead he simply laid down, and Matthew, hands warm and steady, tucked a blanket around him.

* * *

><p>Translation: Mne vsyo ravno - It's all the same to me (I don't care)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

He woke the next morning to find the room empty, and himself covered with all the blankets. He had a dim memory of waking up in the night, of Matthew and of feather-light touches on his arms, his hair - but he had no idea where Matthew was now.

Panic lanced through him. Had his boss's revenge come so swiftly, already?

No. He heard sounds from the kitchen. He found both of them there, Matthew sitting at the table and Alfred standing at the stove, stirring something.

"'Morning," Matthew said.

"Good morning." He stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like an intruder.

Alfred didn't look up from whatever he was cooking. "So you run off suddenly without telling us what the fuck is going on and then I wake up this morning and find you sleeping next to my _brother,_ who tells me you fucking have _hypothermia,_ which is fucking bullshit because you're fucking _Soviet Russia,_ and there's a pile of bloody clothes in the motherfucking bathroom! What the fuck did you do?"

"I took care of the situation." He stepped forward, pushing past Alfred and grabbing a new bottle of vodka out of the cabinet. He sat down opposite Matthew, but couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye. "No more KGB in Canada."

"I don't suppose you're gonna tell me just what the hell that means?"

He drank. "No."

He said nothing for a few minutes, listening to Alfred cook. He finally chanced glancing up at Matthew, who gave him a small smile.

Alfred put a plate down in front of him. "Eat."

Ivan looked around, raising an eyebrow. He was the only one with a plate. Alfred seemed to read his thoughts. "We already had breakfast. It's an omelet. Eat."

He did so, silently. It was indeed an omelet, with an oozing orange center that he tried not to consider too closely as he ate. It was hot, and the warmth felt good. He'd almost begun to relax when Alfred sat down next to him, scowling.

"Look, it's not like I'm gonna criticize you for getting rid of the bastards, but damn, Ivan, was that the only way?"

"Yes."

Alfred shot him a look, but didn't press the matter. "Whatever. Listen, I don't care how fucking crazy you are, I don't care if you go all psycho again, but if you hurt my brother I will fucking _end_ you, you understand?"

He smiled, because at least he know how to respond to that. "Perfectly."

* * *

><p>After a slightly less angry lunch and few more thinly-veiled threats, Alfred departed, and Ivan made tea and sat with Matthew in the kitchen. He was doing much better, Ivan noted with satisfaction - stronger, now, and many of the bruises were fading or gone.<p>

"Matvei," Ivan said, staring at his hands splayed out on the table, and trying not to think of blood - _splattered and smeared and __everywhere__-_ "May I inspect your wounds? I think the stitches may be removed now."

He expected hesitance, but instead Matthew nodded, and rose from the table.

In the bathroom, he pulled the stool out of the corner and they sat as they had that first night, with Ivan on the edge of the bathtub, and Matthew in front of him - only significantly less bloody, significantly more conscious, and hopefully properly healed.

He shrugged out of his shirt and Ivan surveyed the injuries.

"They have healed well." He had worried they might not. He laid out his tools. "The stitches can be removed. I will work quickly. This will not hurt."

Matthew jumped at the first touch to his back, and Ivan quickly pulled his hands away. "Is it painful? I will stop."

Of course. No one would want these hands touching them, not after all the blood -

Matthew gave a shaky almost-laugh and shook his head. "No, it's fine. Your hands are... cold."

Oh. Only that. "I am sorry." When he started again, Matthew didn't flinch.

"You will have scars," Ivan said, carefully picking out the stitches. "But not so many."

"That's all right. It'll make me look rugged." Matthew chuckled, stopped. "How are you, Ivan?"

Caught by surprise, he gave the one answer he knew. "I am surprised that you are not upset with me like your brother was."

"He wasn't really upset. He just wanted to make sure you weren't going to go after me. He's overprotective sometimes."

Ivan thought that perhaps it was a reasonable worry, given the circumstances, but said nothing.

"And… your country isn't mine. You do what you have to, even if it's not what I would do." And then, much more quietly, "At least you know what to do."

He would have laughed at such a notion - he knew nothing, _nothing_ except how to destroy and break and ruin - but that would have been cruel. Instead he reached up a hand, placed it on Matthew's shoulder, squeezed gently. After a moment Matthew covered it with his own, and gave a soft squeeze in return.

Ivan resumed his work, apprehensive of what he had to say next. "Matvei…"

"Yeah?"

"I must tell you that my boss will not be happy with what I have done. Usually when he is unhappy he leaves me be, but this time I think that I have done something that is… not excusable." He took a deep breath, to keep his hands from shaking. "If he were to find you with me it would not be safe for you. There is time, because he does not know about this place, but I must return to Russia before he gets the idea to search here for me."

He expected Matthew to be angry, to worry about what he ought to do then, but instead, "What will happen to you when you go back?"

Ivan shrugged. "Prison."

More than prison. Weeks and months of darkness and loneliness punctuated only by the screams in the night and the icy whisper of the voices in his head. And the pain, because he reminded them far too much of that which they no longer wanted to be. Of what they'd tried and failed to get rid of.

"Can he _do_ that?"

"For now, yes." Not for much longer. This had gone too far.

His hands shook.


	10. Chapter 10

They still had time.

His boss wouldn't, couldn't be there immediately. With his nearest contacts gone it would take a while to reestablish his influence, even if he had his suspicions about who had done it or from where. How long, though, Ivan didn't know.

Not for the first time he cursed his lack of connection.

He did have means to remedy that, loath though he was to use them. But it wasn't for his sake, was it? And that made it easier to bear.

He brought this up to Matthew over breakfast. "I must visit your brother."

Matthew gave him a quizzical look.

"He has...resources that are not currently available to me." Like a properly-functioning government that didn't consider its own nation an enemy. "Would you prefer to come with me or to remain here? This location is still a secret, though I do not know for how long it will remain so."

Matthew looked down at the table, considering, and Ivan noticed the worried lines in his forehead, the tense set of his shoulders, and half-regretted asking the question. Then again, what choice did he have?

Finally, "I'll stay here."

He had his misgivings about that, but the look on Matthew's face made it clear that there would be no discussion.

Ivan rose from the table. "I will see you tonight."

* * *

><p>He made it to Alfred's nearest location, gambling that the proximity to his brother would mean that Alfred was doing his work from there. Once he'd arrived he spent nearly an hour arguing with a bunch of people in uniform who knew him only as someone extremely high-ranking and top secret, and finally found himself standing behind a stupid desk covered in paperwork and important plaques and enduring the silly smiling pleasantries by gritting his teeth and thinking of diplomacy. At long last, when he and Alfred were alone in the room and all the idiotic small talk had been exhausted, he admitted,<p>

"I need communications."

Alfred eyed him suspiciously. "What for?"

"What do you think? I have angered my boss, and I know that he will be moving into the area soon, and his files are not open to me."

Alfred busied himself with the papers on the desktop. "I'm not just handing my classified reports over to the Soviet fucking Union!"

He leaned in, pinned the reports to the desk with one massive hand, and reminded himself that violence was not diplomatic. "Russia."

"What?" Alfred finally looked up at him, eyes narrowed and suspicious behind his spectacles.

"Not the Soviet Union. And you can censor whatever the hell you like. I simply need to know if any of my boss's agents are coming here, and when, and I _know_ that your intelligence officers will know that." His voice softened. "I must keep them away from Matthew."

"Knew I should have fucking taken him with me when I had the chance." But his expression had eased, and even as he said it, he was gathering papers from filing cabinets, from the desktop.

"He will not go. He would not come with me today."

Alfred sighed heavily, wearing a look that Ivan recognized as the same one he wore when he was reminding himself of diplomacy. "Fine. Look, get the fuck out of my office before I change my mind. Go make sure he's okay. I'll keep you informed."

* * *

><p>When he returned there was no immediate sign of Matthew. The front room was empty, and he looked closely at it - no signs of distress, nothing out of place. There was still time, he told himself. There had to be. "Matvei?"<p>

No answer, either.

He went into the kitchen and found his answer - Matthew standing at the stove, stirring, kitchen implements and groceries laid out around him. "Matvei?"

Matthew jumped, and spun around to face him, grabbing the nearest thing handy, which happened to be a bottle of vodka. His breathing was fast, uneven. Panicked.

Ivan moved into the room slowly, calmly. "Matvei? What is wrong?"

The look of terror on his face changed to recognition, and the words tumbled out, rushed and breathless. "I'm okay."

"I would say that that is not an accurate assessment." Ivan took care to stand on the opposite side of the room, hands held up and open. "But I commend your reflexes, although I would have chosen the knife. It is easier to use at close distance."

"I -" Matthew looked down, seeming to realize that he still had the vodka in his hand. He gave an almost sheepish smile, and set it down carefully on the counter. "Sorry."

He gestured to the stove. "I'm making dinner. It'll be done soon."

Ivan dropped his hands, but didn't come closer. "It smells good."

The hesitant smile on Matthew's face grew a little brighter. "Thanks." He turned back to the counter, and picked up a loaf of bread and a knife. Ivan saw his hands shaking badly and was about to step in when -

"Ow!"

He'd cut his hand.

Ivan had a fleeting sight of _red_ as Matthew jerked his hand away from the knife. He stared at it, transfixed, and after several seconds had passed and Ivan realized he wasn't going to do anything more about it he stepped forward. When he gently took Matthew's hand in his own it was still shaking. The cut wasn't very deep. Ivan guided him to the sink and held his hand under the faucet. The water seemed to startle him back into awareness, and he fixed Ivan with a wide-eyed stare.

"It is not so bad," Ivan said, letting go. "Rinse this. I will bring you a bandage, and you will tell me what the problem is, da?"

When he returned Matthew had taken his hand form the sink and had a paper towel pressed over it, trying to stop the bleeding. He allowed Ivan to bandage the cut, and said, quietly, "I'm okay."

"Matvei -"

"I'm okay."

"I do not think-"

"You don't understand. I have to be okay." He looked down at his hand. "Thank you."

Ivan let the matter drop.

* * *

><p>Dinner was tense and mostly silent, but Matthew relaxed little by little and by the time they went to sleep he seemed more or less normal again. Or at least, as normal as Ivan had seen him. He even had an almost-peaceful night, with only one bad dream that quickly passed.<p>

He was still asleep when Alfred knocked at the door the next morning.

Ivan answered it, and the expression on Alfred's face told him that he wasn't going to like what Alfred had to say.

"How much time do we have?" he asked.

Alfred shook his head. "It's not that."

Ivan stepped aside to let him in. They sat down at the kitchen table, and Ivan poured two mugs of tea. He'd never seen Alfred look so weary.

"If my boss has not found us, then what is the problem?"

Alfred drank some tea without so much as a disparaging grimace, though he hadn't even put any sugar in it. Clearly this was serious. He adjusted his glasses, and finally said, "It's Canada."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a...situation." He glanced toward the living room, where his brother was still sleeping. "It's the same people that hurt him."

He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. "Here. You can see for yourself."

Ivan read them, albeit slowly. 'A situation' didn't begin to describe it. Two kidnappings, possible insurrection, military intervention… "This is not good."

"No."

"What's not good?" Matthew asked form the doorway.

Alfred gave him a strained smile. "Hey, Matt."

"Hey." He sat down, and repeated, "What's not good?"

Alfred glanced at Ivan, who carefully said, "There is… bad news."

Matthew looked from one of them to the other, expression unreadable. "How bad?"

In response, Alfred slid the stack of reports across the table, looking at it rather than at his brother. Ivan, by contrast, watched Matthew as he picked up the papers and began to read.

A frown formed on his face and grew deeper and deeper until finally he threw the reports down and slammed one fist on top of them, tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Matt-" Alfred reached out to put an arm around him, but Matthew ignored it.

With one shuddering breath he leaned forward and buried his face in his arms. His breath hitched in a nearly-silent sob, and his shoulders started to shake. Ivan put a hand on his arm, trying to comfort, but Matthew didn't respond.

Ivan and Alfred stayed with him, as his breathing gradually evened out and quieted, his shoulders stilled, but even afterwards he simply stayed as he was, unmoving.

No one said anything for quite some time, until finally a small whisper broke the silence.

"No."

It was so soft Ivan wasn't sure he'd heard him. "What?"

Slowly, deliberately, Matthew straightened up, and picked up the reports again. "This."

His voice shook, his hands shook, but his eyes burned brightly and Ivan realized that this time it was rage. "Not in my country. Not to my people. No."

"Matt-"

"No." It was nearly a growl. He stood. "I have to go."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later and he stood in Ivan's doorway, coat zipped up and hood half-hiding his face. Alfred waited for him outside.<p>

"Are you certain about this?"

He smiled, although waveringly. "We do what we must."

His smile might have faltered, but his voice was rock-steady. He held out a hand, and Ivan shook it. Neither of them trembled.

"Thank you," Matthew said. "For all you did for me."

Ivan smiled. _"Ne za shto."_

Matthew headed out into the snow, closing the door softly behind him, and Ivan was left alone with his books. We do what we must, he thought.

_We do what we must._

He could have hired a plane, traveled in secret and tried to pretend he was in Russia all along, but he would not hide. He had nothing to hide. He would live in the open and let them try to hide it.

When the flight ended and he stepped off, the guards were already waiting for him. Which would it be this time, he wondered. Lubyanka or Magadan or Voronezh, oh, Voronezh. If only Anna were still alive, he'd have told her…

He held his head high and stepped forward.


End file.
